From Bullets To Billions

Chad Stern had always believed he could talk, or party, his way out of anything. Tonight, that illusion cracked like glass.

Chrono's promise still echoed in his ears: Five minutes, Chad. That's all you've got before the Black Hounds arrive.Chrono never bluffed, never padded the truth, never gave more time than he said. The moment the words left the fixer's mouth, Chad had understood there would be no miracle exit.

Five minutes shrank to four, then three. Now, every second felt like a hammer blow. The private K-TV suite, its velvet couches littered with empty soju bottles and glitter-dusted champagne flutes, suddenly seemed airless, claustrophobic, a glittering cage with neon-pink bars. There was literally nowhere to run. Chad had tried once already, sprinting through back alleys until his lungs burned. The Black Hounds found him in an hour.

He hadn't even been able to keep quiet long enough to board a train out of the city.

So, he knelt. Right in the center of the karaoke room's lacquered floor, knees bruising against the cheap parquet, forehead pressed to the ground, lungs quivering like kicked dogs. Through the curtain of his sweat-slick hair he peeked up at the man who had just entered with two shadows at his flanks.

"D-Darius," Chad whispered, voice hoarse, "you have to understand. I want to pay you back, every last credit. But Chrono's cut me off. If he won't work with me, how am I supposed to, "

A boot heel clicked. Two men and one women filled the doorway now, blotting out the corridor's neon. They wore matching black trench coats that brushed their ankles like ink spills. The two in back studied the room with predator casualness. The one in front was unmistakable.

Darius Vale.

Leader of the Black Hounds, the most feared organized crew in Notting Hill City. Rumor painted him as ex-military, special forces maybe, the kind who carried secrets heavier than their own rifles. A jagged scar slashed across his right eye, testimony to some story no one dared to ask about. His coat's fur trim framed a face carved from stone, all sharp angles and colder resolve.

Behind him: Jet Corbin, the Enforcer. A mountain of muscle squeezed into a trench coat twin to his boss's. Steel-toed boots. A buzz cut that made his neck look thicker. Everyone in the city knew Jet answered to one person and one person only, Darius.

And just to the left, almost dancing on silent feet, Vivian Kross. Slim, raven-haired, her fitted black combat suit hugged every line of her lithe frame. Her lips held a half-moon smile that never quite reached her eyes, and her fingers twirled a sleek switchblade like it was a conductor's baton.

Three predators, one bleeding rabbit. Chad's pulse skittered.

"I'm a fair man, Chad," Darius began, voice smooth as oiled steel. He stepped farther into the room, letting the karaoke screen behind him spit rainbow light across his scar. "When you blew your last cent at the tables, but still owed us plenty, I offered a path to redemption. Earn it back, I said. Bleed for the Rejected Corps, sell your skills, your time, your very breath. But the Corps have no use for you, which tells me one thing."

He crouched, long coat pooling like a shadow. "You. Didn't. Try."

Each word thumped inside Chad's skull. He tried to swallow, but his mouth had turned into sand.

"If I had a debt like yours," Darius continued, "I'd be hustling every hour the sun and moon allowed. But instead I find you here, drunk, draped in dancers, wasting oxygen. That," he breathed, "upsets me."

A subtle flick of Darius's fingers and Jet moved. The giant crossed the room in three strides, grabbed Chad by the hair, and hauled him upright. Sharp pain burst at Chad's scalp. He yelped, heels kicking against the floorboards.

"Usually," Darius said conversationally, "we have options. Throw you into one of our fight rings, let the crowd make wagers on how fast you break. Or we harvest your organs; transplant fees are good this season. Perhaps chain you to a work crew until the books balance. Tragic news, Chad: your debt is too steep. Even your lungs, liver, kidneys, heart, combine the lot and we're still in the red."

Chad's heartbeat pounded in his ears. He tasted bile.

"Lucky for you, you're a Stern," Darius went on. "Old money. Big name. Surely that opens a few vault doors?"

"You don't under, "

Crack.

Jet smashed Chad's face into the shining floor. Cartilage crunched; hot blood spurted across Chad's designer shirt. Dizziness spun him sideways, but Jet's iron grip on his collar held him painfully present.

Vision swimming, Chad caught shards of his own reflection in a mirror panel: swollen lips, nose skewed, fear shining brighter than the LED lights around the room. Grandfather won't give me another cent, his brain chanted. Mother cares more about her next husband than me. The few family members willing to acknowledge him only did so at brunches and charity galas, for the photo ops, never the messy follow-through.

He had one chance, one faint, flickering possibility. Yet if he revealed it, the Hounds would swoop in and burn it to ash, leaving him nothing for a second start. He wanted that chance. Needed it. But Darius's patience was paper-thin, and Vivian's grin was widening.

"It looks," Darius mused, rising to his feet, "like even pain doesn't motivate you. Jet, hold him."

Jet's boot pinned Chad's wrist like a steel vice. Vivian glided forward, switchblade glinting. She knelt, the edge teasing the air between them. "Classic tool," she sang, flicking the blade open. Snick. "Works wonders on stubborn tongues."

"No. Please. Don't, "

Sharp metal slid under Chad's nail. Agony detonated, bright white. His scream bounced off neon walls. Somewhere behind him, Darius turned the karaoke system up to max volume, thumping bass smothering the noise of torture under a syrupy pop anthem.

Vivian slid the blade deeper under a second nail. Blood welled, and Chad's vision clouded with tears. His lungs clawed for air that tasted of old smoke and bubble-gum perfume.

"Talk, little Stern." Her voice was almost tender. "Give us something better than excuses."

Chad's resolve shattered. "Your money, " He choked on the words, coughed, tried again. "I can get it. I swear."

Vivian paused, one eyebrow arching like a raven's wing. Darius pressed pause on the karaoke remote, muting the sugary track. Silence crashed over the room.

"I have a cousin," Chad gasped, every breath ripping shards of glass through his sinuses. "Real surname Stern like me. We were tight once. His trust fund, untouched, huge. He's clean, untainted by any of this." Guilt twisted inside him; once upon a time that purity had been Chad's too, before he drowned it in neon nightclubs and poker chips. "But he won't hand it over easily. He'll need… convincing."

Jet's grip loosened an inch. Vivian withdrew the blade, wiping it delicately on a bar napkin as if it were lipstick.

Darius studied Chad, scar catching the light. "Name," he commanded.

"H-he's enrolled at Riverside under the alias Max Smith. But his real name is Max Stern." Chad's heartbeat thundered. "Find him, and your money's covered. Every penny."